There she stopped him. "Here," she whispered quickly, "you give me
that, Bunting. The lodger won't like your going in to him." And
then, as he obeyed her, and was about to turn downstairs again, she
added in a rather acid tone, "You might open the door for me, at
any rate! How can I manage to do it with this here heavy tray on
my hands?"

She spoke in a queer, jerky way, and Bunting felt surprised--rather
put out. Ellen wasn't exactly what you'd call a lively, jolly woman,
but when things were going well--as now--she was generally equable
enough. He supposed she was still resentful of the way he had
spoken to her about young Chandler and the new Avenger murder.

However, he was always for peace, so he opened the drawing-room door,
and as soon as he had started going downstairs Mrs. Bunting walked
into the room.

And then at once there came over her the queerest feeling of relief,
of lightness of heart.

As usual, the lodger was sitting at his old place, reading the Bible.

Somehow--she could not have told you why, she would not willingly
have told herself--she had expected to see Mr. Sleuth looking
different. But no, he appeared to be exactly the same--in fact,
as he glanced up at her a pleasanter smile than usual lighted up
his thin, pallid face.

"Well, Mrs. Bunting," he said genially, "I overslept myself this